


Spinal Cord

by grizzly_bear_bane



Series: Cigar Box [16]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Eames' POV, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Heavy Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Past Domestic Violence, Past Drug Use and Addiction, Past Homelessness, Prison, Prompt Fill, Prostitution, References to Past Child Abuse, Soulmates, past underage prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2459594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grizzly_bear_bane/pseuds/grizzly_bear_bane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames reminisces about their years together as he counts down the months leading to his release from prison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spinal Cord

**Author's Note:**

> BEFORE READING THIS: If you haven't read the previous installments in the series, read those first. This series in no way holds back any punches, so read with caution.
> 
> Also, Eames' narration and retelling differ from Arthur's in the ways they both interpret the world, their characterization, and the kinds of details they both focus on. :3
> 
> Special thanks to M and Pam for their support and invaluable beta work. <3 <3

++

+

****URF, **North Michigan |****  ** **Day 36**

 

The first few times Arthur and Eames get to talk on the phone while Eames is in prison, Arthur’s struggling on his own. A month passes and Eames can tell that something is especially wrong.

“Hey. You've gone a bit quiet, kitty cat.”

“Uh-huh. I’m fine,” Arthur answers, distracted, his voice thick.

After all these years, after all that’s happened, of what’s  _capable_  of happening, Eames knows better than to let it slide.

“ _Arthur_?” He asks in a stern voice that he knows Arthur will respond to.

“Eames, I’m fine, okay?”

“You’re the worst liar in the entire world, baby. Come on. You can talk to me.”

Arthur’s voice begins to waver over the line. “No, Eames, I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“I’m always worried about you, silly boy,” Eames mutters, getting nervous when Arthur doesn’t respond. “Tell me, Arthur, or I’ll worry even more.”

There’s a longer pause and Eames hears Arthur sniffle.

Arthur’s voice is flat over the phone’s static. “I… I was attacked.”

Eames’ heart falls to the floor. He feels like all the blood’s draining out of his body, that he’s been dunked in acid. He can hardly get the word out. “W-what?”

Arthur sighs. “I was sleeping, and…” He lowers his voice as other people in the shelter pass by. “I woke up and the creep was on top of me.”

Eames is speechless. Arthur's supposed to be safe in that shelter. It's filled with families, filled with volunteers, it has counselors, and a fucking policeman, and yet…

“He’s still here,” Arthur tells Eames quietly over the murmur of the dozens of other people in the shelter, and all Eames wants to do is break out of this prison and bash the fucker’s head in until there’s nothing left and then take Arthur far away from there. “I can see the creep now. Eames, he’s watching me.”

Eames clears his throat with difficulty, trying to get his brain to work. “H-have you told anyone?”

“This morning,” Arthur says low. “Bradley, the guy at the desk, said he’d ‘look into it’ but, Eames, this guy, Bradley, is the same one in charge that I told you about last week, who tried to ask me to—”

“Yeah, I remember.” Eames clenches his jaw.

“So,” Eames hears Arthur quietly sniffle and cough, “I’m on my own until I figure out what else to do. I don’t want to cause trouble, you know? Because what if there’s no room for me at another shelter, and so far, this one’s been the best. They don’t make you leave in the morning like those other places,” he rambles. “But…”

“You can’t stay there anymore.”

“I know.” Arthur coughs hard. It’s muffled. Eames doesn’t like it. “Besides, spring’s almost here. I think I’ll leave as soon as the snow clears.”

Eames listens to Arthur cough harder still. His head feels empty. “I’m going to fucking kill him, Arthur,” is all he can come up with. "I will kill him, I swear."

But he can’t. It's only been a month and he’s already wrecked his first chance of winning over the parole board with all the fights he’s been getting into. He talks to Arthur for a bit longer, comforting him with his words as best he can. They hang up the phone and Eames goes to bed that night knowing that Arthur will get attacked again and there’s nothing they can do about it.

It terrifies him. It’s the most terrifying thing in the world. More than a shank in his gut, or getting jumped in the weights room, or glass in his food. All those things Eames can handle, he’s  _ready_  for those things, but this…is too much.

Eames is not a generally fearful person, but where Arthur’s involved, Eames never stops being afraid.

That boy is simply a walking dartboard, a magnet for scumbags.

Not that Eames doesn’t often include himself in that category, to some degree. No, Eames is too self-aware to spare himself, but the men who turn up in Arthur’s radar looking for sex have to be the worst people alive.

Arthur's strong,  _tough_. More than the boy knows.

Eames lies awake, staring at the ceiling as his cellmates snore. He misses Arthur more than he ever thought he could, and that’s saying something, because Eames knew getting arrested that he’d miss Arthur more than he could bear.

 

+

**Detriot, Michigan | December 31 - Day 1**

 

Eames fucking hated Detroit winters. Dirty snow crunched under his boots, swallowing him up to his ankles as he led Cobb on the trail of shoe-sized holes on the sidewalk. His hands were aching, wet from the blood and the snow. He could feel it soaking through his gloves. It made his hands cold.

They should have both been home. Fuck, the whole gang ought to have been. Kicking their feet up, getting drunk, getting rowdy, how folks were supposed to on New Years Eve…

But Cobb was his mate. And if he said that they had unfinished business then they had unfinished business. He wouldn't argue. Not tonight. Not yet, at least.

If Eames’ hands were to break from crushing so many faces before they found the man who's killed Mal, he’d have just had to pummel the pig with the splinters in his knuckles. Shit, Eames’ feet were cold as fuck in his boots but they’d work fine for a curb-stomping if they had to.

That girl was legendary. The mother of all these sorry whores out on the streets. A queen, who'd been cut down by scoundrels and left like trash. It wasn't right.

Squeezing a young boys throat until Eames felt something cave in under his hands, Eames wondered if they'd known she was pregnant or if just being Cobb’s girl was enough to do her in.

Hm. It wasn't even Cobb’s kid. Probably a john’s or one of her pimps’, but a girl was allowed to have her secrets just like everybody else, he supposed. Like how Cobb only played at being a gangster, or how that rat Nash was born in the fucking Hamptons… or Eames himself, who, on the rare occasion when he found his bed shared, only fucked girls on their stomach. It was easier. Lord knows an avid imagination only ever went so far. Thank god asses looked similar enough across the sexes for Eames.

And Eames saw that boney little ass first before paying any attention to the thugs huddled over that boy. One of them was pumping a cock in that abused hole smaller than Eames’ thumb, looked like.

And he knew that ass was on a boy.

Poor thing.

_Lucky_  thing, considering why Eames and his crew were even out roaming in the frigid snow. Needledick and his drooling stooges all had a number and it’s up. Right at that moment.

Death so young fascinated Eames. One second a boy was getting his rocks off in a kiddy whore and the next second his life was over. Like a fly swatted under a newspaper or splattered on a windshield. Gone. Hm.

Looking down at the boy pulling up his pants, Eames swore the boys and girls working the corners looked younger and younger whenever they crossed his path. And more haggard. Vastly overworked even in the snow. If he'd gotten the boy on his knees with his ass up in the air, he’d probably have been able to look right into his body from how used he was. Eames was surprised when that thought made his cock twitch.

But then, the boy looked up from the snow with his eyes wet and runny nose looking like Rudolph’s and Eames’ cock went right back to sleep.

Eames might have had his reasons for running, but America was supposedly the land of dreams. So what nightmare could have driven this kid here, to this world where nobody cared how old you were or where you came from so long as you had a hustle and a trick to sell? How was this better than a home and a future? Jesus fucking Christ.

“Eames!”

He blinked at Cobb before eyeing the boy again. “Hm?”

“The last punk’s getting away. Come on.”

He tilted his head, thinking. “Yeah… Hm.”

Dead girl. Dead baby. Dead boys. Everywhere. And then this one.

Eames could have fucked off and left him there, followed Cobb and got his gang home before the ball dropped but… this kid was done. He wasn't even trying to get up to run away. He was just lying in the snow crying like no one ever ought to.

He’d be a pop sickle before the night ended. And in the morning, the body would get picked up along with these others, all nameless, and the news would call it tragic, then he’d thaw out on a shelf or something in a bodybag and it just…

_Fuck it_ , it wasn't right.

“Eames!”

“No, Cobb. We’re done. Call the boys back in.”

“Are you nuts? Fuck that kid! Eames, what are you thinking?”

Eames felt bad for Cobb, seeing him chase himself into insanity for revenge, but he knew it wouldn't bring Mal back. “Oi! You’re my mate, but since when do you need an explanation from me? You heard what I said. We’ve seen his face, alright?” He grunted, getting closer to the boy. He frowned when the kid started to scoot away from him. “We’ve crushed all the rabbit holes he’s got. He’s a cooked hare now. We’ll get him in the morning.”

“No,” the boy spoke clearly at last, in a deeper voice that surprised Eames. “Just leave me here… Everything’s gone.”

“See?” Cobb shouted, looking down the alley for the other one. “I told you he was nuts. Let’s go!”

“Fuck off, Cobb. Fetch the boys.” When he picked the kid up, he weighed next to nothing. “We’re going back to base.”

He’d never seen a body that skinny before. In the bathtub in his room, Eames scrubbed him cleaner and cleaner, trying to figure him out but with no luck.

Food worked. Didn't it always? And clean clothes although they made this boy Arthur look even smaller than he really was. The string on the sweatpants when tied hung down close to his knees. If it hadn't been obvious that Arthur’s growth and weight were stunted, him in those clothes would have been…cute.

Eames liked cute things. Like Arthur’s tiny feet and how the sleeves gobbled up his hands. Or the fact that the biggest thing on Arthur was his goofy ears.

It didn't hit Eames until he was in the shower that he had absolutely no idea what to do with the kid. It was bad to make rash decisions when he'd been cold and tired and had wanted out of the snow, but now that they were both staring at each other as Eames redressed, Eames knew he should have thought this through better.

Eames smoked at the window to keep the air clean. His knuckles were still sore.

Arthur looked different now. Still hunched into himself but not nearly as much as he sat collecting himself. “Thank you for everything,” he said at last, with a voice Eames thought was older than Arthur looked. “I mean it. Thank you, but… I have to leave tomorrow.”

Eames snorted. To think that he’d saved this same fool not even an hour ago, and yet the boy already had shots to call. “The hell you are.”

Fear flashed across Arthur’s sleepy face. He glanced at the door and swallowed, his voice softer, more careful. “I… I can’t stay here. I’ll pay you back just as soon as I get back on my feet, Eames. I swear it.”

Eames had already had two beers but he needed another to drown this boy out. “No. Sorry.”

Arthur shrunk tighter into himself, defensively. “I’m not joining your gang if that’s what’s you’re thinking.” 

Oh, now the boy was bristling. Interesting. He was rail thin but there were layers and layers of something else under that pale skin.

“Fine,” Eames decided to test. “Leave now.”

“Wait… Can't I leave first thing? Tomorrow?" Arthur’s little smoking fire was out that fast. "Please?”

Eames frowned, studied him for a long time. “Who’s looking for you Arthur, hm?”

“Nobody. I don’t have anyone.”

Eames wanted to punch himself in the chest for how miserable Arthur sounded, but at the same time, he was floored by Arthur’s statement. Nobody on these streets lived alone who looked like Arthur. It was impossible. A death wish.

But here the boy was. 

“I had someone,” Arthur went on, mostly to himself, “but… Mal’s gone now.”

Eames leaned forward. “Mal?”

Some of Arthur’s fearful guard broke then. “You knew her?”

Eames sighed. Mal. He was sure that girl was going to haunt him forever. He actually wasn't too bothered by that.

His smile was sad. “Oh, everybody knew Mal…” Just not the right kind of ‘everybody.’ Not when it really mattered, at least. Eames scratched the back of his neck, his voice low. “She is—she  _was_ —Dom’s girl.” Damn, he didn't want to get reflective or contemplative, but he couldn't help it.

Arthur even looked like Mal sometimes. Eames could see it in the way Arthur was trying to read him, those brown eyes watching him from under long lashes, like he knew too much about Eames already.

Either Eames had too many beers or needed another cigarette, he wasn't sure.

“Fuck it, kid. You’re definitely staying,” Eames finally stated. “Can't let one of Mal's stray cats freeze. I owe her that much… More.”

The boy’s ears and cheeks were red as he rubbed his legs, his head down. “I don’t need you to take care of me.”

It was the sorriest lie Eames had ever heard. “You’re staying—Don’t worry about the gang. You’re not here for that.”

“Then… what  _am_  I here for?”

That quiet voice… and that question… Eames lit another cigarette and laughed, feeling awkward as he tried to tease. “The fuck if I know, sweetheart. I’m still trying to figure how a little fuck like you actually made money. Starved-skinny’s in style these days, or…?”

Arthur’s face fell. Well, fuck it. Eames never said he was good at conversation.

The more he talked the more Arthur crumbled. It was unbelievable, really. Arthur was  _glaring_  at Eames now, and Eames doubted if Arthur even realized what he looked like—in  _any_  capacity, because not only did the kid have the nerve to be offended that Eames wasn't fucking him, as if Arthur was oh-so irresistible or something, but that Arthur was also…  _disappointed_ by that fact?

And here Eames was, feeling a little bad for him. Squandered pity for Arthur, even a sliver of respect. He’d offered him books, protection, a roof,  _and_  food in exchange for nothing!

Yet the little nut glared, looking more and more offended when he ought to have been happy, grateful that nobody was going to touch him. God knows, if it were Eames with his ass on the line, he’d have been kissing the feet of anyone who wanted him to stop being a whore. How had a brat like this ever ended up with Mal?

Eames blinked. To hell with it. “Fine. I’ll fuck you, if you feel you gotta work to stay here. I’m up for it.”

There were things about Arthur he could try to like, sure. For one, Arthur had all his teeth. He had a quiet, sleepy look about his face. Again, cute. But with that bruise, Eames couldn't really stop his pity from choking off the blood supply to his cock. And Arthur  _was_  gangly and awkward as fuck, all limbs and little else… A kid. Not an awfully young one no, but one who surely couldn't buy Eames his cigarettes nonetheless, and Eames wasn't now, nor was he ever, attracted to fucking kids, even when he was one.

But Arthur was already loose between his folded legs. Anyone could have just slid right between those banged up thighs and rode him out until he had something real to pout over. Hell, a good number of the boys here had girlfriends or other means for fucking, but not a single person in this house would have passed up sex, even if it fell off the back of a truck and got run over a couple times.

He told Arthur this and still, Arthur looked as if he was still trying to figure out why Eames hadn’t flipped him over and used him yet.

Well, maybe… maybe better Eames than anybody else here.

“Don’t touch me.”

Eames paused, completely confused by that sudden flat hostility. “Huh? But you…?”

“Don’t. Touch. Me,” the boy gritted out again, looking more and more terrified. “Please.”

Eames snorted. “Look, I’m…fucking lost, boy. You want to fuck, but… no?”

“You’re not gonna pay me, right?”

Eames glanced around the room, trying to will Arthur to see how much he owed  _Eames_  himself so far, but he couldn't get the words out.

“Then… please don’t touch me. I’ll go if I have to.”

But it was clear that Arthur didn't want to leave. Eames was completely out of his element at this point. 

So…  _this_  was the game Arthur played, perhaps? If so, the poor thing had his head screwed on completely backwards. No wonder those boys had been doing him in. And by the simmering heat in Arthur’s eyes and his cornered animal look, he seemed perfectly fine…with a fight.

Arthur had certainly weathered some storms, that was clear. He knew just when to push and retreat—with other men, perhaps. Eames, not so much.

Eames knew he should have fucked that girl at the party last week. And he should have beat off in the shower a few minutes ago.  _Definitely_  should have knocked one out then.

His cock was too curious now. "Strip. There hasn't been anybody in my bed for a  _long_  time, so show me why I ought to keep you. Come on."

“Fuck you. You… you don’t scare me.” Arthur balled his hands into fists, but he stayed firmly planted on the bed.

“Of course you’re scared,” Eames rumbled and he meant it. He knew nothing at all about Mal’s little stray, but it still frustrated him that Arthur wouldn't just tell him straight, tell him plainly, without all the bullshit, just what he wanted from Eames. "Russian Roulette is scary, isn't it?"

But Eames was willing to bite. He'd chew to the point that Arthur never wanted to see teeth ever again, and maybe, just maybe then Arthur would take the damn books and slow down—Hell, maybe he’d even run his little scared ass back home to mum and dad, where he ought to be.

“I’m curious,” Eames said, stepping closer. “How do you know when you’ll scratch a man too deep and he ends up giving you  _more_  than what you expected? Or do you like pushing them off the edge? Is that what brings the customers back for more? Is that what gets  _you_  off?”

He was surprised when Arthur jumped to his feet, seething. “Come on, Arthur. You don’t have to—”

Eames was punched. Like a pebble thrown at a cement block, but Arthur had tried his best to hurt Eames.

He touched his face, laughing. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m guessing you’ve never hit anyone else before? Right. You’re sure as fuck  _never_  going to try that shit with me again.”

He had to give Arthur credit, at least. He’d gotten under Eames’ skin a lot easier than Eames had expected.

Particularly when, out of nowhere, Arthur punched him again.  _Surprisingly hard._

Now Eames was officially done playing. More than that, he was done with Arthur. Period. “I warned you not to fucking push me.”

“And I told you to get away from me! But you wouldn’t listen! You’re just a jerk.”

Arthur tried to swing again but Eames caught him. He got him pinned down to hold him until Arthur’s chaos subdued good enough to toss him out, Mal be damned.

Until Eames realized that Arthur was serious. Eames had it all wrong.

This was no game. Arthur was frustrated, confused, lost, and only trying to navigate in Eames' world on Eames' terms, without any of the tools needed to do that. Just how long he'd been... forced to speak with sex, Eames couldn't know, but it made sense. A little too late.

And then a scream like something Eames had never heard before exploded out of the boy crushed under him.

_Oh, Fuck_.

“Baby, listen. I’m sorry. Fuck. Arthur? Hey.  _Listen_.” Eames grimaced as Arthur still struggled and screamed louder. The others in the house must have been having a hell of a time listening to this over the music that played downstairs. “Arthur—Stop hitting me, damn it!”

He had to hold him tighter, his heart ripped to shreds as he listened to Arthur sob. It was all a mess, and it was Eames' fault. He had no idea how to fix it.

“I won’t fight you anymore,” Arthur cried, shouting. “Do what you want, I don’t care! I’m so tired. I just don’t want to be hurt anymore!”

“But you…” It hadn't made sense. Eames had thought for sure Arthur wanted… But fuck it. It didn't have to make sense. Eames should have given him distance from the beginning, and space and time to get his head on straight. All that mattered now was that Eames was a giant bully and he'd made a fucking eighty pound, hopeless little nothing cry, because Eames was shit, and clearly not cut out for this. Damn Mal to hell forever.  _And_  Eames' penis, for all the trouble it had gotten him in so far.

“Okay, okay, you’re safe," Eames tried. "Arthur, relax. Come on, Arthur, you’re alright. Snap out of it, yeah?”

Eames started to pull him further up the bed. Wrong move. Arthur immediately began to hyperventilate, thrashing more and begging, but Eames couldn't let him go. There was no telling what Arthur would do if freed. Hell, he would probably go for the opened window. Eames was honestly scared by that thought. He hated it. “I’m not going to hurt you, I swear!”

He sighed, easing his grip once Arthur went limp in his arms.

The boy was gone. To where, Eames had no idea, but he got them both comfortable and waited, hoping Arthur would come back and not want to hit him anymore or hurt himself.

Eames stared up at the old ceiling, rubbing Arthur’s back. Arthur’s fists were buried deep into the back of his shirt. He was shaking as if his sobs were too big for his body. Painful, and unfamiliar to him, like he hadn't allowed himself to cry in years. It hit Eames then that maybe Arthur probably hadn't.

Fuck, in this life, on those unforgiving streets? He couldn't blame him.

Arthur came back slowly, moaning, full of dread.

“Hey,” Eames tried again, awkwardly, when those red eyes peeked up at him. He swallowed as he brushed Arthur’s hair back from his face. “Feel better?”

Arthur looked run down and battered, but when he inhaled and exhaled a shaky, hoarse breath, his answer would have knocked Eames on his ass if he'd been standing.

“Fuck me.”

Eames blinked. “Arthur, you…”

That look was back, but Eames understood it now. Arthur was afraid of his rejection, as if Eames telling him no again tonight would solidify some bullshit theory in Arthur’s mind that if he wasn't getting fucked then he was useless.

Eames was being handed a loaded gun, he knew it. He took a deep breath, stalling as he propped himself over Arthur on his elbows. Arthur looked so small and so much like thin ice over a puddle that would shatter if you walked near it.

There was a guarded but  _hopeful_  look to him that Eames didn't know how to read. He lost himself in it, realizing a moment later that he’d been idly circling his fingertips around the deep hollow between Arthur’s collarbones as Arthur stared, blushing and waiting. He licked his lips and sighed again. “Punch me again and I’m putting you out.”

Again, his idea of teasing was rusty. Fuck it. “You follow my lead. Okay?”

He was given a nod.

Arthur’s lips were soft, delicate, even, when Eames kissed him, loosening up those tense shoulders—or so he thought.

Arthur didn't kiss back. He might as well have been a blowup doll. The more Eames kissed him the more he felt himself getting angry again. Very fucking angry. He had no idea how long Arthur had been selling his ass, but if he didn't know how to kiss, it’s wasn't Arthur’s fault. Hell, he’d probably never even had someone bother to touch him in anyway that wasn't selfish. It was a shame.

So Eames tried to, and Arthur deflected. Hm.

His lips dragged over Arthur’s neck as his hands disappeared under his baggy sweater, fingertips grazing over nipples that felt like they belonged to a girl before Arthur tried to shy away from his touch. But not far. It was baffling. But Arthur was just a baffling boy, wasn’t he?

Eames lifted his sweater high up his chest. He had a knack for making his usual lovers smile with their little nubs in his mouth, and almost had one of Arthur's, before Arthur actually  _growled_  at him. It was cute, so Eames let it pass. When he’d thawed Arthur out enough, he’d come back to his chest then. Eames just couldn't pass up a good pair of…

“Oh fuck me,” Eames rumbled, liking very much the hand that appeared around his cock. Those fingers were skinny, but long, that grip hard enough to stun Eames. Arthur’s tongue circling and dipping under Eames’ foreskin were equally pleasing. If he weren’t at the mercy of a tight throat without a gag reflex, he’d have had to commend Arthur. Just… not yet. Not when his brain was scrambled. He settled for running his fingers through the softest curling hair... and those big, goofy ears.

With his cock come back to life, and his beers settled comfortably in his stomach, Eames was thinking of that hole again. Wrestling him into another kiss, Eames knew it wouldn't be the greatest sex  _he’d_  ever had, but Arthur on the other hand, had no idea that that hole was about to make its first best friend. But he wanted to see if Arthur’s stomach and ribs were ticklish. He wanted to hear Arthur laugh, hell, even see him smile if he could. 

He paused at Arthur’s unhappy groan, looking down at him. “What’s the matter with you, huh?”

He felt Arthur’s erection press against him, even as Arthur frowned, turning his head away. His ears and cheeks were bright red. Eames wanted to laugh at Arthur for being embarrassed over something that was  _supposed_  to happen, but he let it slide, kissing the side of his face until Arthur’s jaw unclenched. His hand dipped down. He loved the sigh that passed Arthur’s lips when he touched his cock, stroking it with care. “That’s it, kitty cat.” He eased Arthur out of his pants and resumed his stroking, surprised by his own gentleness but proud of he was capable of it, capable of not being greedy and just making Arthur feel good.

This was...comfortable, oddly. _Familiar_ feeling. Normal, or at least as far as Eames could assume, like Eames hadn't bashed in heads tonight, like Arthur wasn't a runaway, a whore.

He smiled as Arthur’s eyes fluttered. “Silly boy.”

Arthur melted under his touch. Eames would be lying if he said that didn’t make him feel hot to have Arthur pant and sigh, twisting and turning, trying to fight off the pleasure he felt throughout his body. And when he circled Arthur’s hole, listening to Arthur moan as his hips rocked of their own accord, Eames felt even hotter. His two fingers slipped in and out with ease as he searched for any damage and instead found the money spot.

Even when Arthur clenched around him when he pressed that spot harder, he still feared that a third finger might hurt him but it didn't. It was a relief. And a turn on that made his cock leak, starved.

He moved between Arthur’s skinny legs and his world tilted a little sideways when he pushed in and got teeth in his shoulder. Arthur’s body took him in like he was supposed to be there, like his cunt had been waiting and waiting for a cock that could really stroke it and make it purr.

Arthur back arched, his thighs squeezing Eames’ sides, his hands sliding up his back and gripping his arms. That frightened, awkward boy was gone. Arthur was a different animal now.

Eames grunted, unable to be gentle with him any longer. He took, making the springs in the bed whine, and God did Arthur give, panting with his lips pressed to Eames’ jaw like a lover. Eames had been wrong. Say what he will about Arthur, but his sex was heaven, or the fun and exciting bits of Hell nobody ever mentioned. Even the wet slap of his skin sliding and smacking against Arthur had Eames near salivating. It was rough, and wrong on too many levels for Eames to count. He looked down where they were joined, where his cock was already covered in white streaks of his own precome and only god knew who else had come in him, but it was new for Eames, and  _hot_. Watching his hole take and take made Eames want to claim and cover him, crush him into the old mattress and keep him there. 

Arthur’s hole tightened around him and for a second he thought Arthur was close to coming, but he was tense, his palms pushing at Eames’ chest.

“Eames, stop,” Arthur moaned, pushing at him harder, his voice cracking.

There’s no way in hell, this close to bursting, Eames was going to pause for a position change. Maybe next time, but right now, he was too damn close. Or maybe he’d gotten too rough, so he slowed, careful again now that he remembered the night Arthur had had. “You’re okay, baby. We’re almost there. Keep rocking with me.”

Arthur was breathless, struggling. He could see it in his eyes that he was running away from what his body was telling him he wanted. He hushed Arthur, knowing that he’d relax if Eames reassured him he was safe.

But for the second time tonight, Eames found that he was completely, _painfully_  wrong.

Eames wasn't sure if he blacked out when Arthur broke the lamp over the side of his face, but one thing he knew now for sure: when Arthur spoke, Eames ought to listen. Not that his ego had room for a lesson now that he could feel blood and see it spotting and staining the sheets, his hand, and his shirt collar.

He rounded on the boy in the corner as soon as he could get to his feet and not risk falling over. He’d laugh at the fact that his cock wanted in that cunt even more now that he’d felt Arthur’s true might. He remembered being a young punk back in London, all tough and rumble only to get his ass kicked by a feral kitten once. It was all very funny and telling—but right now, he was pissed.

Eames’ had never laid hands on anyone he’d fucked before, but he had to swat away Arthur’s fists. He grabbed Arthur’s hair and caught his knee, narrowly missing a hit to his balls when he flattened Arthur to the wall. Arthur had no idea, even after everything he’d seen Eames do, that hitting Eames was never a good plan. 

He counted to ten, then a hundred. “I already told you once," he seethed. "Hit me again and I will crush your little neck. Don’t think I won’t just because I like you. Push me, and I will push you back.” But even as Arthur nodded in understanding, he was still glaring like he'd gotten a taste for Eames’ blood and wanted more, still trying to get his hands on Eames even as he rubbed against Eames’ cock.

It sent a shiver up Eames’ spine. Arthur wasn't afraid of him, not really, at least not that way that most everyone else in Eames' life was. There was no pretending, or pandering. Arthur wanted more from Eames. Be it more of Eames' blood or his cock, Arthur didn't quite seem to know which, but he wanted. Eames could see it in his tight jaw and his narrowed eyes and the way Arthur's grip on his bloody shirt nearly pulled the seams. Arthur didn't care who Eames was or what Eames could do. In this moment, Arthur was going to take. On  _his_ terms.

Arthur's lips and teeth bashed Eames' in an attempt to kiss him. It hurt, but Eames loved that fire.

But just as quickly, Arthur deflated again, making Eames' head swim.

Arthur turned away, his shaky breath pants out on Eames’ lips, they’re so close. He searches Eames’ eyes. “Why…are you doing all of this?”

“I don’t want to fight you, Arthur. We both know what we want.”

“Then fuck me. Why can’t you just get it over with? Stop with all of this other shit. I don't need it.”

Eames raised his brow and leaned his weight more fully against the skinny boy, feeling his cock slip between those opened legs. He could feel Arthur’s heart race. He snorted. “You want me just to treat you like you’re nothing? A throwaway? Hm?”

“What else?”

“And then what, Arthur? How much better will you feel after that?”

“I told you, it’s not about me.”

“Oh yeah? Why can’t it be? What’s wrong with getting what you want for once? You’ve already proven to me that you can. Loud and bloody clear.” To the point where Eames might need stitches on his face, but he didn't tell him that. The wheels were already getting greased up and ready to turn in Arthur’s brain.

Eames got slapped for trying to kiss him again. It only boiled his blood and made him hotter for this wild boy. Arthur had no idea how to kiss Eames back, but he did try to again when their mouths clashed, his thin lips trying to cover Eames’ as Eames moaned, his tongue tickling the roof of Arthur’s mouth.

With Arthur’s leg still hiked up, trapped by Eames’ hand, his cock slid back into him. He watched Arthur intently, grinning when Arthur’s eyes fluttered and he bit his lip, telling Eames everything in that moment.

Eames chuckled, teasing Arthur’s hole as his lips grazed his, inexplicably fond of Arthur now, until he was bitten hard on his bottom lip.

So Arthur was not one for teasing. Fine. Eames could live with that, especially when he turned Arthur around, the back of his baggy shirt in his hand, and got the pleasure of watching Arthur’s ass rock back on his cock, gobbling it up.

Arthur pushed against the wall he was crushed to, trying to take more of Eames in even as he still tried to pretend that this meant nothing to him. But Eames bit his shoulder, his hands big and bruising on Arthur’s bony hips. Arthur begged for more of it, for which Eames wasn't about to tell him no at this point.

“Your cunt’s just the greediest little thing, isn’t it, kitty cat?”

“Shut up,” Arthur gritted out, moaning at the hand returned to his throat. “I hate you,” he purred.

“Yes, but you love my cock don’t you?”

Eames listened to him pant. He waited for a response to tumble from those lips.

“Yes,” Arthur whined once he found his voice. He took hold of Eames’ arms, lifting himself higher on his tiptoes. “More… H-harder?”

“ _Oh baby_.” Eames gave it to him gladly, holding him tightly. Every sound from Arthur’s lips, every thrust in that lovely hole did Eames’ head in. He wanted to tell Arthur that he was an idiot. That he was beautiful, and  _fuckable_ , and that none of those creeps on the streets deserved him, and that if he kept eating and showering and brushing those crooked teeth, he’d never be able to get rid of Eames...

Fuck it. He’d have to remember that later, because now he was coming, hard. He knew his come must be thick and unending since he couldn't even remember the last time his balls had squeezed out this much for one person. He wanted to tell Arthur to clamp down on him to keep it in, if he could just stop fucking Arthur first. His come ran down Arthur's legs as he pumped.

Oh well. Next time he'd tell him all these things. And Arthur would be tighter next time too, more relaxed,  _less lethal to Eames’ pretty face_ , because now Arthur knew he was worth more than he gave himself credit for.

Or he ought to.

No, no, he definite did. The little brat was laughing now, for fuck’s sake. Probably because Eames came first, but he doesn't even give a shit. He'd let Arthur tease him until the ends of the earth now. 

He sunk to his knees and turned him, groaning at the fact that his cock couldn't go another round because seeing those legs, even as skinny as they are, they’re hot and messy and Eames is buzzed enough that he loves those legs and who they're attached to.

Arthur’s cock in his mouth was good enough for now. He listened first to those soft, surprised sounds. Arthur meant to push Eames away again, no doubt unfamiliar with this as well, but his hands gripped Eames’ shoulders, taking hold of his hair, and thrust his hips with no control.

Their eyes met as Eames looked up at him. His greedy hands petted under Arthur's sweater, past that cute navel and his tiny stomach, ribs, to those nipples Eames reached up for, getting them under his thumbs before Arthur jerked up his hands to cover them. What a shame. But Arthur could have that. He just wants Arthur to feel good and have everything.

His fingers plunged back inside him. He curled them, finger pads slippery as they tickled that spot, getting a good squeeze out of Arthur. Eames moaned around his cock, loving how wet Arthur was, loving how hot it was to feel his come inside him.

“Eames," Arthur shook, his eyes closed. "I’m… Fuck, Eames. Eames…”

It was like music to his ears. He watched Arthur as he swallowed his release. Arthur’s head fell back, his sweater clutched in his hands trembling.

Eames' heart felt funny as he caught Arthur when his legs give out.

They sat there panting at each other. Arthur  _really_  didn't know what he looked like in his heap with those legs spread and his body dripping like it wanted more. Jesus Christ, boy.

Eames felt funny all over now. Giddy, anxious, thrilled.

Damn those fireworks outside. Eames hoped they would all explode and catch people and their homes on fire. It was too comical, and too ill-timed.

Eames laughed, but Arthur clearly had no clue why. He wanted to shake the boy and brace for the surprise when the film crews showed up to make a movie out of this fucked up romance they had going on, with fucking fireworks and all!

Poor boy. Poor hopeless boy. Eames couldn't handle it. He felt weird in his chest and he didn't like it, particularly with the feeling directed at a boy who would just climb out the window first chance he got, never to be seen again.

“Tell me your name again. I… I forgot it.” Eames wanted to punch himself.

Arthur beat him to it. The pain _inside_ , at least, because Arthur was twisting his sweater in those little hands and it was cute and it was killing Eames when that voice, now hoarse and  _shy_ , answered. “Arthur. It's Arthur.”

Fuck it. If Arthur couldn't fight off his own erection, Eames shouldn’t have been able to run from his own feelings either, no matter how much it  _totally and completely would not_  hurt him in the morning.

Eames grinned a little. Arthur bit his lip.

_Now_  Eames got it. If Mal could have seen him, she would have laughed her little ass off. “Well, boy, Happy New Year, Arthur. Pleasure spending it with you.”

Arthur tried to slap him again, but when he lifted his hand Eames reached forward and caught it, pinning it to the wall as he devoured Arthur’s lips, melting into Arthur when he heard his faint moan.

They fucked again—After Eames’ bed was cleared of lamp debris and the bloody sheets were changed. Arthur would pay for that… just… not tonight.

Or the next day. It wasn't Arthur who ran, but Eames himself.

It was cold as fuck outside, but still he grabbed Cobb first thing and got him walking. They both needed to clear their heads. Cobb was too shitfaced to ask about the boy, save for the questioning look at the scabbed cuts on Eames' temple, but he didn't need to. Eames’ brain was cluttered with Arthur enough as is. And god damn did his head hurt from getting beat up.

He blamed his mum. She'd had a house full of rescued kittens and puppies before she'd died. Even Mal had been all about saving things. It was harder than it looked, and maybe Arthur might have wanted help  _prior_  to Eames’ dick ruining everything, but Eames was clearly not the man for the job.

They shouldn’t have fucked. Eames shouldn't have pushed. They could have gone to bed, slept, played cards, fucking stared at each other all night, but not that… Maybe some heavy petting if Arthur wanted—No, Arthur didn't like petting. He had no idea what Arthur liked and it was too late now to find out.

Eames was down to four cigarettes in his pack when their detective work found them the boy they’re looking for.

Little shit still had Arthur’s bag on him. Or what had been left of it. The little thug had been banged up when they'd found him. Must have had Arthur’s stuff all night hopping from house to house trying to find someone to take him in who wasn't afraid to cross Eames—which was no one. Kid didn't even fight really. Too cold for that, after the night he’d had.

Eames had given him pity: He'd let Cobb drag him off to do…whatever it is Cobb did when he had a head full of booze and a loaded gun.

Eames wandered back alone, eyeing Arthur’s mum in a ratty picture, and the little keychain of a dinosaur with ‘Arthur’ scribbled on the bottom. He didn't know what he’d do them. Keep them, maybe, as a reminder. He’d listen to Cobb next time.

He gave a nod to his boys at the house and climbed the old steps, massaging his aching head, amending his statement. He’d listen, end of story, no matter who it was, next time. No more punks getting away with bags that didn't belong to them, especially if it was the one thing that could have calmed Arthur down and gotten him relax and talk, no more getting hit with lamps either. Lesson learned.

He choked on his smoke when he saw Arthur sitting on his bed, looking at him like he’d been waiting for him to get home so he could cook dinner for him or something. Eames’ cock at once wanted to say hi. He ignored it. "You sleep okay?”

At Arthur’s nod, Eames rifled in his deep pockets. “Here. I caught up to the little shit who ran off with your stuff.”

“You what?” Arthur was on his feet, looking for Eames to pull his bag out of a magic hat, Eames guessed.

“Yeah,” Eames sighed, wishing he had more. “Your bag was in tatters, kid. Sorry.”

Arthur’s shoulders sank. “Oh… Okay.”

It shouldn’t have been okay, Eames would have flipped if he had been in Arthur’s shoes, not that Arthur even had shoes anymore after those holey things he'd been wearing had been tossed out last night with the rest of his old, dirty clothes.

Hell, for _that_ , Eames would have been even further away from okay. “ _But_ ," he pressed on, "I salvaged as much as I could, which... was a little more than nothing, but...” He shrugged, holding out the photo and keychain.

Arthur took them quickly and sat down, looking like he was going to puke. “Why did you do this?” His voice was numb. “Why did you do this for me?”

Eames shrugged again, shuffling his feet. He felt stupid and he didn't know why. “Because I fucking felt like it. You’re not going to smash a fucking lamp over my head for it, yeah? I'll throw you out of the window.”

Arthur blushed. “No! I… I just… Thank you.” He held the photo to his chest, in a way that spoke louder than any words could that these two little things were all he had. All he had in this big, terrible world.

Eames wanted to give him more things.  _All_  the things. Whatever Arthur’s hands could carry to hold to his chest like that.

“You can’t keep that picture in your pocket. It’ll get bent up, so…uh. Hm. Let me see what I got.” Eames glanced around the room quickly before heading to the bedside table to the bottom drawer that was broken.

He was a little guilty for dumping his precious weed out of its storage box. Those cigar boxes were damn near impossible to come by cheap, but fuck it. He wasn't actually screwing this up right now. Who cared about weed, even if it was really, really,  _really_ , good weed.

He tossed the empty box on the bed, wondering what to do with his weed until he heard Arthur speak up again in a quiet, deep voice, a little thick with emotion. “I owe you…so much for this.”

Eames’ cheeks were getting hot. He balled his hands into fists. “It’s nothing. Forget it.” Awkwardly he ruffled Arthur’s hair, making Arthur smile even though his bruised cheek still had to hurt.

Arthur had dimples when he smiled. Deep set dimples.  _Very fucking cute_.

Damn.

Eames was done for. 

+

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For more drabble requests, questions, inspiration pics, and updates for this fic series, go to grizzly-bear-bane.tumblr.com/


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